School Days - The Agony and the Whatever

Today was the first day of school.  Well, technically it is still the first day of school since they will be there a couple of hours more.  Time does fly, or at least, it walks briskly.

When it comes to things like the first day of school, I have two very different children with two very different approaches.  The Boy nervously frets, sets out his first day clothes at least a week in advance and has his backpack already stuffed full of all the important items on his supply list.  The Girl finally took her school supplies out of the plastic store bag  just ten minutes before she left the house, quickly transferring them into her backpack while finally emptying the odd and forgotten items that have been sitting in it all summer.  She pulled her first day outfit out of the clean clothes basket this morning.

As The Boy faced the day with trepidation and worries about a new year and new teachers and a new locker and new everything, I am tempted to wish he could adopt the same carefree spirit as his sister does.  But only slightly tempted.

Because being completely carefree, she is also worry-free.  She is worry-free in situations where a mother would like her to worry more, or even just a little.  Like crossing streets, talking to strangers, following the mailman (she actually did that when she was younger).  She's ebullient and fun-loving and without fear.

So as heart-wrenching it is to see The Boy struggling with his myriad worries, it is hard not to wish his sister could borrow just a few of them.  His emotional load would be lighter, and so would mine.

Smile For The Camera - That way no one will recognize you

It's an important day for The Boy. Today is picture day at school. Time flies when you're stressed.

It seems that you just get all the supplies and wardrobe in order, work out the drop-off and pick-up schedules, remember which days are gym and require sneakers, which days are Library days so you can hunt down the borrowed book which is most likely residing under a bed or a couch cushion and as soon as you think you are ready to take one relaxed breath - it's picture day.

I can remember the long hours of thought and discussion that went into the choosing of an outfit for The Girl on picture day, but The Boy doesn't really seem to care. I think that's the best approach, anyway. Carefully planned color schemes to highlight their eyes and paying the extra fee for a custom background, retouching, framing and personalized monographing has not once proved to result in a better portrait. The color scheme you spent so much time choosing usually turns out to make the child look sallow or of alien origin, the strips on the shirt strobe, the carefully curled hair goes limp and ill-kempt and generally you get a very carefully planned and expensive fiasco. The best pictures happen when you missed reading that notice from school or your child used it to write out their birthday gift wish-list and you sent them to school looking just like themselves.

The Boy presents a few special problems of his own, I will admit. First, there's the haircut he gave himself just a few days before school started. This consisted of one very close chop just above the forehead, effectively removing any of that pesky hair that was falling into his face and annoying him, but also rendering a sort of swollen-brain syndrome look. The other scissor chops were placed in random spots on the sides and the back of his head. I made a valiant attempt to even it out as much as possible and it certainly helped to put a little gel on it and pretend he was supposed to look like a rock performer. It has grown a bit more, so I once again went at his head with scissors last night, leaving it all a bit more even, but definitely not stylish.

Then there are the photographic faces. He has two, and neither of them belong to him. As I sit here writing this I am looking at a picture taken by his teacher in class last year. He has both hands on his face pulling his skin and his eyelids in opposite directions. One eye appears to be rolled up into his head and the other is unnaturally wide open and staring. I know it's him because I recognize the Spiderman sweatshirt. His other photographic face is quite calm, studious and sweet. That's not him either.

In the end I settled for making sure he washed his face, brushed his teeth and wore clean clothes. I didn't tell him to smile or to sit still. I was afraid any sort of instructions might make the situation worse. I chose the plainest and cheapest of backgrounds and studiously avoided thinking about what color shirt would go best with it.

I have written out the hefty check to pay for these unseen portraits and await the resulting images with motherly pride and some well-learned trepidation. Oh, and The Girl? She's thirteen and believes that her mother is clueless so would never think of asking for my advice on her clothes and hair on picture day. Thank goodness. Teen attitude is good for something at least.

There Goes the Bride - Again

The Boy was 6 when he walked into the kitchen one day and said to me "Mom, I like girls". It was very matter-of-fact. I nodded, a little short on words since I didn't know if this was just a declaration or the beginning of one of "those" chats. I simply said "That's good, glad to hear it".

Now there's no doubt he's a handsome little thing with a shock of dark blonde hair that glistens with natural streaks of gold, big blue eyes and a winning smile. But The Boy is only 7 and he's been engaged twice and married once.

Oh yeah, he got married. His first fiancé, who is 8 years old, moved to another town and he was quite distressed at first. But it didn't take him long to replace her with a new neighbor who is also 8. The kid's got a thing for older women.

The wedding was sprung on me without advance warning. The Girl got busy making cupcakes for the occasion, filled the house with stuffed animal guests and they all got dressed up. The Boy wore a shirt and tie - he knows how to impress a lady. I was commissioned to play the wedding march on the keyboard and they marched through the house to a lovely outdoor ceremony after which they were taken away in a red wagon. It was a lovely wedding.

Now the wife is moving across town, and will be attending a different school. At 7 and 8, I don't think long-distance relationships survive very long. I don't think I will survive if I am called upon to transport him daily to visit her.

On the other hand, I don't think I am ready for yet another engagement or a second marriage. Besides, who will get custody of the wagon?

A Weekend Reprieve

When you have children, there is a certain noise level to which you become accustomed. Even when they aren't fighting or trying to wrest the remote control for the TV from one another, there is never anything akin to quiet. Children make noise, even when they are behaving well.

And yet, give a mother just 48 hours of peace and quiet and she quickly adjusts.

This weekend the children were away at their cousin's house. A pair just made for my pair - a slightly older boy to play video games, discuss Pokemon card collections and pass on outgrown clothes for my son to hang with and a slightly younger girl for my daughter to adopt as her little sister/doll/plaything.

It was the first quiet time my husband and I have had since our brief honeymoon. We were married in May and since then our time has been spent working and blogging and listening to the sounds of children who unfortunately don't go back to school until September.

The children arrived home this evening in typical fashion, each trying to out-talk the other, first through rapidity of speech and then through volume. It didn't take long for them to tire of us though and within minutes they had recruited the neighbor children to take part in their mission to re-acclimate us to noise.

What I found interesting is my initial reaction to what was basically very minor noisemaking for four children. It was like a volcanic eruption of words and sounds, screeches and squeals. But two hours into their homecoming and I realized that I am already learning to block out the titters and teasing and listening only for sounds of dangerous mayhem.

I often wondered how my mother dealt with the noise and confusion of five children, I can barely handle two. I do now know why my mother gave up on fastidiousness in housework, however.

Upon arriving, my daughter remarked "Oh, the house looks so clean".

Yeah, that lasted about as long as the quiet.